


periit

by lester_sheehan



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Little bit of Fluff, M/M, Pain, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 10:12:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lester_sheehan/pseuds/lester_sheehan
Summary: Atticus, Cicero, (Tiro), and Laelius De Amicitia.





	periit

**44 BC**

They sat alone in Atticus’ library, blankets wrapped loosely around their shoulders. The heat from the fire warmed their fingers, whilst the light, so golden and intimate, danced across the shelves, skipped from book to book. Outside, the night was dark and cold, silent as the dead, but there, in that moment, no sound was needed; Atticus was as content as he may ever be.

After a short while, Cicero looked up from his lap, eyes searching everywhere but Atticus’ own, as he so often did when he was nervous. “I have finished my book,” he said. “The one on friendship.”

A gentle smile brightened Atticus’ face, and Cicero was instantly put at ease. “May I read it?”

“I was thinking that perhaps I could read it to you,” Cicero ventured, fingers worrying the soft edge of his chair. “It is you, after all, whom I intended to write it for.”

“I could want nothing more,” Atticus said. And then he closed his eyes, letting the gentle flicker of the light somewhere beyond his lids, and the soft hum of Cicero’s voice, lull him into serenity.

He thought about how much Cicero’s speech had developed, how he was no longer the timid, young man visiting Antiochus and Posidonius and Molon, unable to keep his voice steady and calm, tone differing precariously. No, now he radiated confidence, words leaving his lips like flakes of silver and gold. He had the ability to make any man believe his assertions. He was something not from this world entirely.

Cicero continued to talk, and Atticus’ mind wandered further. He watched the subtle quirk of Cicero’s lips, the way one corner would rise almost inexplicably at times, as though the man was recalling a fond memory, mind elsewhere. At one point, he glanced up, meeting Atticus’ eyes. “What do you think so far?” he said.

“I think it is the best thing I have ever heard,” Atticus said.

Cicero said, “Well, now you are just teasing me,” but blushed all the same, and Atticus laughed with a quick wink that only deepened the glow. “Truly, though,” Cicero said. “I can handle any criticism that you may have. I would rather you tell me now than wait for me to suffer at the hands of my enemies. It is—that is, I am proud of this book, but I think that I have learned with the years to be a little more humble.”

“Have you really?” Atticus smirked, and Cicero rolled his eyes.

“I said a little,” he clarified, before laughing himself, and continuing to read aloud.

The moment was tender and beautiful and so very ordinary. Atticus would treasure it for the rest of his life.

***

**38 BC**

The next time Atticus read _Laelius De Amicitia_ , the moment, and his friend, were gone.

He had watched as Cicero’s life fell apart, piece by piece, until little else remained. His wife, his daughter, his enemies, his friends. All of them, one by one, torn away from this life and thrown carelessly into the next, until Cicero was a man left standing in the middle of a wreckage, a lone figure haunting the ruins of a world he once knew.

It had broken him—this, Atticus had no doubt about—but it had also released something within Cicero, something daringly bold, a kind of recklessness that pushed him to the edge of his character, like that of Patroclus in Achilles’ armour, grown into something new. 

It was night, and Tiro had come to visit, as he so often did of an evening. They were both so very old now, so very lost in this new empire Octavian had built. Perhaps it was best for Cicero not to witness it, Atticus thought. Perhaps his guilty conscience would have dug too deep.

“I see you are reading that again,” Tiro said from the doorway. He entered the room quietly, softly, as he had always done, and seated himself in the empty chair, leaving Atticus’ mind to flash back to days long gone. “I remember the time he spent working on it. He was so adamant that it must be perfect. That it must be the best thing he ever wrote.” 

“I am sure he said that about everything,” Atticus said.

Tiro shook his head. “No, my friend. This was something different: I could see it in his eyes.” He put his hand to his lips in a contemplative gesture. “He wanted you to know how much you meant.”

“I have always known,” Atticus said, and he did not voice the fears that he felt, the worry he had always carried that it was, in fact, the other way around. At night, as he lay in his bed, he often wondered whether he had done enough, whether he had shown Cicero the same loyalty that the man had always shown him.

Tiro said, “I believe the whole world knew,” and Atticus chuckled, low and sad.

“He has begot me so much pain in this lifetime. So much sorrow. But do you know what, Tiro?” With a sigh, long and wistful and old, Atticus watched the dance of the moonlight through the curtains. It was soft, barely touching the surfaces of the room. He felt, somehow, less alone. “I would not change it for all the joy the gods could give.”

He did not need to explain himself further, for Tiro knew—of course he knew. He had spent years following the man around, listening to every speech and boast and complaint (and sometimes, on extremely rare occasions, every drunken, self-pitying ramble). He knew full well the charm Cicero exalted, the way how—even when the joke was on you—you wanted, despite all dignity-saving thought, to laugh along.

“He would want us to be happy,” Tiro said.

“I do not deny that,” Atticus smiled, “but he would also want us to remember him. And so he has made sure that we will never forget.”

Tiro said, “Him and his quest for greatness,” and gently shook his head. “I suppose he really did achieve it in the end.”

Atticus hummed gently in response, running his thumb along the edge of the scroll. He thought back to younger days of Cicero eagerly reciting the facts he had been taught in class, bustling with joy at the prospect of new knowledge; of Cicero translating Greek in his bedroom, begging Atticus (who had been a faster learner on that front) to read the texts aloud, so that he might master the perfect pronunciation; and of Cicero, on warm summer nights, skipping stones across the river and talking of how their friendship would never cease, for he would love Atticus until the end of his days. They would grow old together, he would say, discussing philosophy and politics in Athens until their eyes closed, sharing verse and Homeric references until their lungs no longer worked.

“I think he had it all along,” Atticus said, and placed the scroll down on the table beside him. “It just took him a while to realise it.”


End file.
